Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(78)

Tristan leans down and puts his thumb against my lower lip. Half of me considers biting it off while the other half … doesn’t want to admit how damn good it feels.

“The passionate joining of man and woman, it’s not a sin, it’s God’s blessing in the bedroom.” He leans in closer, like he’s going to kiss me, but I pull back, yanking my arm from his. He smiles seductively, this practiced motion that I bet he’s used on dozens of girls. Don’t think about Kiara Xiao, I tell myself, but my mind goes there anyway, and I shiver. She’s been nothing but a nightmare to me, and she’s only just become a Blueblood.

“You don’t strike me as a religious person,” I say, and Tristan shrugs, digging his hands into the pockets of his white slacks. A huge group of tourists pushes past, and I get jostled and shoved. Tristan’s there in a split-second, putting himself between them and me, and putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. He levels a glare on the crowd that instantly puts a space bubble around us, and then he stands over me with this possessive tightening of his fingers that I don’t understand. For someone that hates me as much as he claims to, he sure does like to touch me.

“I’m not religious,” Tristan replies, finally letting go of me. He turns back to the long row of carvings, kings and bishops and Jesus himself done up in fine detail. “None of this interests me.”

“But this is history,” I say, holding a hand out to indicate the church, my heart pounding wildly. This is seriously the longest conversation we’ve had the entire year. It’s making my pulse race like crazy. “We can learn so much from the past.” I step closer to the velvet rope and curl my fingers around it, wishing I could get just a little bit closer. “People make mistakes, Tristan, and if they don’t learn from them, nothing changes.” I level a look on him that he returns with unflinching ease. After a moment, he steps closer and holds out his elbow. I take it, noticing that his body tenses when I dig my fingers into his jacket.

“My dad hates you, you know. He thinks you’re the devil incarnate.” He says this casually, but with a hardness to his voice that says he wants me to know this for some reason, like it’s super important. I take note and file that away, but I refuse to let thoughts of William Vanderbilt interrupt my afternoon.

We spend the rest of the day in the Latin Quarter, walking past bars where Ernest Hemingway drank, and pausing at street vendors selling oil paintings of the city. The coffee in Paris is atrocious, the pastries fantastic, and the company … not so bad as I’d thought.

Spring break might be two weeks long, but we only have five days in Paris, so we pack them as tight as we can with activities, using our second day to tackle Disneyland.

Tristan lets me cling to his arm and gush as we make our way from one ride to another. Despite his uptight personality and generally bad attitude, he’s not a bad park buddy. He doesn’t shy away from any ride, not even something as silly as the tea cups. He takes a selfie with me in front of the pink Disney castle, and even has lunch with me at the Pirates of the Caribbean restaurant. By the end of the day, I’m sort of enjoying parading around the park in our matching white uniforms, watching girls’ eyes track our movements with unbridled jealousy.

On the train ride back to the hotel, I fall asleep with my head on Tristan’s shoulder, and some strange, quiet part of me imagines him stroking his fingers through my hair.

On our last day in Paris, we hit the Eiffel Tower, but it’s a little too crowded to be enjoyable, so we excuse ourselves to the park across the street to take pictures. Everything seems normal until Tristan stops walking abruptly.

“You okay?” I ask, blinking up at him.

“Marnye,” Tristan starts, turning to face me. The way he’s gazing down at my face, with his gray gaze softened, his mouth parted slightly, I expect something big. My heart races, and I feel my throat getting tight. No words will come. Instead, I wait for his. “There are so many things … You can’t stay at Burberry Prep. The Infinity Club is—”

“Don’t blame your actions on the Club,” I tell him, finally finding my voice again. My breath comes in short, sharp, little pants. “Don’t do it. If you have something to say to me, then say it. But don’t stand there and hide behind the club.”

Tristan scowls, but then shakes his head, his raven-dark hair fluttering in the breeze. If I tilt my head just slightly, I can see the Eiffel Tower, standing proud in the pale blue afternoon sky. He takes another step closer to me and then raises his hands to my shoulders, laying his palms gently on them. My body tingles at the touch.

“Marnye,” he starts, sounding so different than usual, almost eager, almost … sorry. “I’m—”

“Well, well, didn’t realize you two were so close,” Windsor’s voice calls out, and I swear, there’s a sudden flash of rage in Tristan’s gaze before a wall smashes down his emotions. I watch in desperate sadness as he locks away whatever he was going to say, and drops his arms to his sides before turning to glare at the prince. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m content to stand here and watch.” Windsor smiles, but it isn’t pleasant. He’s clearly plotting right now. As much as I like him, I always have to remember that I’m walking on a razor’s edge. He’s as dangerous as the rest of them.

“What are you even doing here?” Tristan growls, that practiced self-control of his slipping for a moment. “And I don’t mean at the Eiffel Tower: I mean on this trip, period.”